Phineas Phinephallus's Phun Pt. 02

I blasted, while some sort of gargly foghorn noise escaped my mouth. I wrenched upright, feeling my neck cording. Too late to stop it, I cut loose completely, spurt after confined spurt. It felt terrific. The joy of the release was overpowering, I wanted my balls and prostate to keep this up forever.

"Yes! Ohmygod yes!" shrieked Claire. "You're cumming! It's amazing! YAAAAGGHHH!"

She curled her torso, grabbed mine, and hauled me down to her. "I made you cum! You! Me! Can you do more?"

"Condom," I wheezed.

"Let me!" she said, wriggling free and scrambling to her knees. "I wanna suck!"

She unrolled it roughly, then gulped my shaft. In fact, I could do more, or was still doing it. I oozed onto her tongue. With a closed-mouth squeal, she grabbed my butt, nails first.

"Ohgod..." she said, more or less, while still searching for my slime.

Deep within me, never completely buried, lurks the insecure sophomore I once was. It now took over my voice: "Did you cum again?"

"Totally," said Claire, rocking back to lie flat. "But I don't care. This was better." Joy lit her face, and she laughed. "You came, because of me! That so immensely rocks! Will you write about that?"

I frowned. "I'd never violate your privacy--"

"Oh please pleeeeze!" she said, "Let my exes know what they gave up!"

'Writing about' can mean different things. What I'm 'writing about' Claire now, in my journal, is a far cry from 'writing about' her in a publication to be read by the multitudes. The latter would definitely be out of bounds.

Unless I gave her a different name.

She was so happy, I couldn't pour cold water. Smiling, I said, "You definitely gave me quite an experience. Something that two characters could enjoy together." Then it occurred to me to bring it back to what she'd said at the start. "So was this fun?"

"Hell yeah!" she said, hugging me hard, then kissing my spunk into my mouth. "But that can't ever happen with anyone else! You're Phineas Phinephallus!"

"And you're Claire Hendry, who can probably have fun with anyone she likes. Maybe not exactly like that--"

"Definitely not like that!" Then she ramped down, and looked at me softly. "Thanks. I think I've stopped worrying about what I don't have. And that's a good thing."

***

My phone had been connected into a sort of texting ring. As I waited for the elevator, dressed over grubbiness, I saw that Claire, still in her room for freshening up, had sent out a broadcast:

WHAT A GREAT FUCK!!! NEXT!!!

When the elevator doors opened at the lobby, there were at least a dozen women waiting there. They converged on me giddily. But one warded them off. "We agreed, didn't we? I'm next!" It was Linda, topfree plus jeans. The other women halted, mumbling assent, nodding.

"Okay," I said to Linda, smiling. I moved back towards the elevator and said, "What floor?"

"After we do this," she said, waving me to join her. She headed for the convention center.

She took me to one of the show stages, where four women in bondage gear were undulating. We moved along the front row of the audience, among the masturbating men, and found one in particular.

"Cliff," she said loudly, "this is the guy who writes those hot books that I read at night, after you think you've done enough. I'm taking him up to our room. He's going to fuck me."

Cliff let his head roll towards his wife and me. He chuckled, then looked again at the objects of his tumescence. "Yeah, whatever," he said.

Linda returned us to the hotel, saying, "Does that count as spousal consent?"

"Linda, are you okay?" I demanded.

"I will be."

Out of curiosity I looked through my phone. The green check mark next to Linda also showed a note: Must demonstrate spousal consent.

In her room, she had me undress her the rest of the way. We were standing face-to-face when she fingered apart labia on a crotch that was hairless but nicked, marring the deep brown skin. "Please kiss," she said quietly.

I crouched and did so, very carefully. I said, "Let me know if it hurts."

"You're fine."

"Would you like to lie down? I can--"

"No." She put her hands on my shoulders to get me to straighten. "I want to take pictures. I won't send 'em anywhere, and I'll erase 'em tomorrow."

"Stop!" I said, jolting her. "Linda, maybe you're entitled to revenge, but I want no part of it!"

She looked at me as though seeing me for the first time. "But you said you'd..." She trailed off, realizing that I hadn't promised what would happen in my fans' rooms.

Her look softened. "It isn't just revenge. I want to matter to somebody."

I stepped close. "If this is about you, I'd be happy to help. If it's about Cliff, I'll have to leave."

When she smiled, her head-tilted a bit to the right, shifting her short dreads. "All right, no pictures. Nothing else about my rotten relationship. When we planned this trip, we did agree that we'd get our rocks off, no judgment." She reached up to finger through my hair. "I did want to meet you. Just be with the man who writes what gets me off. But, once we got here, I got caught up. I still want to talk to you, about your books, your mind. Got some of that in the interview." She licked her lips. "But now, please get naked."

Once I'd stripped, her eyes dropped, and her smile widened. "Damn, that is the biggest white cock I've ever seen in person!"

"I hope you can enjoy it."

She laughed, and pulled me close. "I can. Because it's for me. You're right, being pissed off at Cliff would get in the way of another great fuck, like Claire got."

Linda was pear-shaped, but well toned. Her breasts drooped a bit, and diverged, but her going topfree showed that she was fine with that. Despite expressions that were sometimes harsh, her face was delicate, with wide-set brown eyes.

I was very hot for her, and now, I could bang for quite a while without a desperate need to spooj.

"What would you like?" I asked, while pressing my crotch on hers. "Take a wild guess what I'd like."

"Cowgirl!" she said, with a bit of hurt coming to the surface. "I want to look at the man, and him to look at me. We're people!"

I tried to sidestep her spousal situation to follow up on this. "A longtime issue?"

She nodded. "I know I got a great ass. But men shouldn't just get behind me and act like they don't want me to identify them later."

"I'm not into femdom--"

"I know, I read your damn books."

"--but I'm thrilled when my partner rides me, if she wants freedom of movement."

"I read that too. You repeat yourself sometimes, Phineas, but I can't complain while I'm rubbing out."

I embraced her tighter, getting my thigh behind my shwanz and pushing it between her legs. "Reader feedback. That's the only reason I'm here."

She gasped. "Lube that damn thing. Now!"

I acted on this reader feedback immediately. She gave my pole some licks as she got into position, and ducked way down to get both balls in her mouth. That made my legs twitch, and she rose with a smug look as she mounted me.

She wanted us to look at each other, and we did. Wordlessly. He eyes widening. Slowly she engulfed me. Our mouths hung open.

Her labia settled on my pubic bone.

"Oh," she said. Her breath trembled. "Yeah."

I could only nod at her.

Her moisture fizzed and trickled around my putz.

She began slow rises and falls. I held still, awaiting her response.

"Like Saoirse, in The Landscape Artist." she said. "In Benno's cabin."

It took me a few seconds, but I recalled the scene. I've written twenty-eight novels, it can take a while to pin down a moment. I'm only a writer, not a fan.

I thickened and stiffened and felt spectacular. Sometimes having and using this cock can feel almost as good as letting it unload.

"They never spoke," I whispered.

"But they yelled!" said Linda, eyes ablaze, slamming her pussy down and lofting it to the rim of my glans.

She leaned to grab my sides. I clamped my hands on her breasts. She howled.

I began swiveling my trunk, sometimes to reinforce her motion, sometimes to veer across it. Her howl broke into segments, with panting and yips.

In a while we were kissing, torsos secured by flexed arms, and she continued to impale herself on my spindle while I shifted to the extent I still could.

I stretched her. She clamped me. Her nipples seemed to drill into a part of me that's never hard, my chest.

Her body declared three orgasms, through spasms and shudders. The rushes I got from her muscles and moisture made my brain into a dopamine fountain, and made a conventional orgasm unnecessary.

Gradually, our kisses gentled. But they continued.

Finally she murmured, "When I send my great-fuck text...won't bother sending to Cliff."

As Linda resumed kissing, my heart swelled even more than my dork, which was still encased and massive.

Then for a while we did talk about my writing, and her analysis proved to be incisive. All while our genitals softened and slumped together, and felt great even that way.

I asked if she wrote.

She got very bashful.

I told her I'd gladly be her beta-reader.

She giggled. "That's what I need! White mansplaining!"

"You can't get rid of me that easily."

Before I left the room, I insisted that we exchange email addresses.

***

On the way to the elevator, I concluded that I was totally on board.

I went to my suite, and dug up the swag bag. I found it to be a full EECON survive-and-thrive kit, with three-packs of eight different condom brands, four different travel-size lubes, water-based wipes, spermicide, and a durable towel. This explained Claire's condoms and Linda's lube.

I returned to the exhibit hall with nothing but an open EE robe over my pudgy, pasty body, and supplies in my badge holder.

Several times, excited women asked me to open it wider. And then, to accompany the interested parties to zones of genital contact. Things got naughtier there, but only with hands and mouths.

It wasn't long before I adjusted to playing with women's bodies in a large indoor space with several witnesses. Green check-marks got me into delightful encounters, in which I licked several quims to orgasm, accepted light licks to my shlong and stones, fingered clits while sucking breasts, answered questions about how I thought up various sex scenes for my books, and dodged those on whether what I did now would be immortalized in my fiction.

There was a great deal of kibitzing and laughter, notably from Claire and Linda. They were so happy, that I couldn't object to them razzing me, especially because at the time I was sharing sexual favors with enthusiastic nude women. I was also aware that my face and body and lovemaking were recorded on many phones, as stills and video, and then shared who knows where. I no longer had any mental or emotional twitches over this. Erotica was already much of my life, and this was just another aspect of that.

To my relief, the non-penetrative fun satisfied many of my exuberant fans.

There were, however, quietly-voiced requests for greater intimacy. From women shy about playing in public, but eager to go the distance in private.

Brenna. Lakshmi. Two ladies named Laura (separately).

Natalie, the dark-haired young woman who'd requested an audition, got her wish. And took her own video of it.

Then, Doris. Finally, Elspeth.

I had only three orgasms, starting with Claire, yet felt so invigorated that I saw no need for more.

I'm besotted with all of them. And also the ones who made much less contact, or none at all, only expressing enjoyment of my writing.

Around 5:30, my phone chimed as a text arrived. At the time I was in a post-coital cuddle with Elspeth, and I continued that as long as she liked. Only after I was in the elevator did I look at the message. It was from Lucy.

If you can finish your swiving by 7 pm, please join me in the pan-Asian restaurant. Sorry, Honey, you'll have to put on clothes, the Health Department has rules against nudity in a sit-down restaurant.

By then, I was ready to revert to rest-of-the-world behavior, at least for a while. I shaved, showered, and dressed in my usual bland respectability.

I had thought dinner would be yet another business-first confab with Lucy.

Instead, I found her at a long string of tables with at least a dozen other people.

There was a chair open between Alyssa and Ruth. They grinned, and beckoned me.

Lucy was, in fact, doing business. At least three people here were clients of hers. I also recognized two EE editors. Lucy managed to keep up conversations with all of them, on matters related to the clients' work for EE and other publishers, while devouring her satay appetizer.

It was only while I was getting into my chair that I got a really good look at the ladies who surrounded me. I was already fond of them, but now I was as good as floored. They had glammed up. I think my crotch was below the table before my tumescence began in earnest.

I blithered, "Sorry, guess I didn't get the memo."

Ruth tossed her curls. "That's all right, we're used to patriarchal inequities."

Alyssa smirked. "I'd claim that the way you're dressed merely makes us even more eye-catching, but to be honest, Phineas, putting you in a tux wouldn't make much difference."

I could hardly deny that, and anyway I was too busy appreciating the sight of my surrounding sirens.

Ruth was in a shimmery silver evening gown, the spaghetti straps revealing her muscle tone when she chose to flex it. Silver earrings danced below her lobes. Her lip gloss was mostly clear, but with silvery hints. Her eye shadow went from tan to reddish. Her hair was the same cloud of curls I had seen before, and why should she ever change that? Ditto the freckles.

Alyssa had styled her hair back somewhat with golden-glittered comb clips. Her eye shadow was blue-ish, her lips a slightly brighter red. Simple pearl studs were at her ears, matching the single strand of pearls around her neck. In a complete lack of surprise, her black dress was cut down the center well past her sternum, and if she wore anything to support her breasts, it wasn't present anywhere between them. Said breasts arced outward lusciously, hidden by fabric starting about halfway towards each nipple.

"I suppose," I said, struggling to be clever, "Your profession calls upon you to appear many different ways. Including ways that aren't inconspicuous."

"Exactly," said Ruth. "It has absolutely nothing to do with addling the minds of certain individuals."

A male voice from beyond her intoned a robotic "Whatever you say, Dear."

Ruth leaned back slightly so I could see a handsome East Asian man in a suit and tie. "Phineas, this is Darrell Moy," said Ruth. "Darrell, this is your worst nightmare."

Darrell groaned, "Another one?"

From beyond Alyssa I heard a man's voice. "Mr. Phinephallus, I've learned a great deal from your works. Adjusting my attitude to align it with yours has allowed me to continue winning the favor of women far beyond my league."

Looking that way, I saw past Alyssa's smug smile a suited, bearded blond fellow who seemed to exude surfer-ness. "Speaking only for myself," I said sagely, "it's always safest to assume that any woman, anywhere, could easily find someone better than I. Hence, I do whatever I can to persuade them to let me hang around."

He extended a hand across Alyssa. "Mark Spivey," he said, "since Alyssa hasn't bothered to introduce us."

As I shook his hand, Alyssa gave him A Look, and said, "To do that, I'd have to remember your name."

A besieged-looking waitperson slipped in to hand me a menu and rattle off the night's specials.

"If your jaw is sore," said Ruth, "you could order soup."

I felt myself reaching their level of frisky fun. I looked down my nose at her. "You underestimate me."

Alyssa said, "In the videos, you didn't have any problems. That's another subject on which we need to learn your limit."

Exactly why Lucy wanted me there was never obvious. Maybe she just thought we'd all have fun sharing this meal. It's true I'm relieved to learn that my sex partners' partners have no problem with my intrusion on a relationship, and the conversation made it clear that the arrangement here, which included Lucy, with hints of unspecified others, was secure and enjoyable for all parties.

The food was excellent and the discussion wide-ranging. I gathered that some people there were friends-of-friends, who seemed to be mingling energetically. The other writers asked for my advice on various subjects, and I mentored them to the best of my ability. This got my attention beyond the zone of my new lovers and their lovers. I took in that Lucy was also glammed, in a bare-shouldered green number and a spangly choker. My cock, which had managed to calm down, again threatened to lift the tablecloth. Clearly I had not overtaxed myself that afternoon.

I couldn't help but notice that one client, who wrote under the pen name of Celestina, got into detailed discussion with Mark Spivey. He had read some of her works. She was more than flattered. She was short and middle-aged, and came across as shy and insecure. The attention of this hot guy seemed to have her enthralled, and rattled.

Darrell asked me, "So you won't be joining us at the dance?"

My lack of response got Lucy's attention. She cleared her throat, then raised her voice enough to quell the others. "In case anyone still hasn't read all of the info packet, there's a dance going on while my clients participate in the live 500-word-story writing contest. Careers first, you can cut a rug some other time." She then side-eyed me, clearly enjoying it.

***

The contest was clearly a way to raise the profile of some writers, bootstrapped by the presence of writers like myself, who provided a draw. It was probably true by now that any event that included me would get a packed house, and this was the case in the same auditorium where Isabel had interviewed me. Now, however, many of the women in attendance, wearing even less than before, seemed more relaxed in their wide smiles.

There were nine of us writers on the stage, small tables before us, bearing our laptops, which were enabled to send text to a large screen high above and behind us. To one side of the stage was a long table, behind which were seated the judges: Isabel and two EE editors, one each male- and female-identifying.

I treated this as a lark. I certainly didn't intend to compete with the other writers, and the crowd would probably be diverted enough by anything in my wording and attitude. Some of the writers may have pre-written stories for this, but the judges spent most of the time throwing curveballs, giving us specific assignments of things that had to be written during each round. One that I remember now is the triad 'divorce,' 'Venezuela,' and 'butt plug.' Nobody got exactly 500 words, and nobody cared. The judges seemed to assign points based on whether they could say something to make the crowd laugh.

I may have been the only writer who was light-hearted about this. Tom Essence took each assignment seriously, and Zenobia looked like she wasn't having any fun. Celestina's expression sometimes bordered on terror.

Finally, the judges declared that the final round had no requirements. A writer could write whatever moved her/him. This probably allowed some entrants to trot out what they had already written and edited. I dashed off something silly about a self-driving car advancing to take over not just driving, but making out with the driver's date.

Celestina's entry made my eyes pop, as I read it on the big screen. An introverted sculptrix is surprised by the attention of a handsome golden-haired fellow who is a high-level gallery owner, and he awakens passion she never knew she had, which she exerts with him. It was very hot flash fiction, and it won the round, with one of the editors saying it would be a lead item in an upcoming set of short story postings on EE.